


Steadfast

by coaldustcanary



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - The Steadfast Tin Soldier Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8015599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coaldustcanary/pseuds/coaldustcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hand of the King Davos Seaworth is King Stannis Baratheon's loyal man, through and through. A tale loosely based on the fairy tale <i>The Steadfast Tin Soldier</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steadfast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



In many ways, Davos Seaworth still thought of himself not only as smallfolk but as a small man, dwarfed in every way by those highborn men in whose lofty circles he now moved. His king had made him a lord; well and good that was, but it did make him any less a child of Flea Bottom, nor did it make him any less a smuggler, nor did it make him less slight or less gray. His king had made _him_ , in truth; his king’s blade had shaped his flesh, his king’s decisions had shaped his life, and his king’s concerns had left him a fair bit slighter and grayer than he had once been.

Perhaps it would not be right to lay all of the credit or blame for the making of Davos Seaworth, Hand of the King, at His Grace’s feet. Certainly Davos Seaworth the smuggler would be grizzled gray by now, regardless of Stannis Baratheon’s presence, or lack thereof, in his life.

More likely, he’d be dead.

Still and silent in his place near the foot of the enormous throne, where he could easily look down at every man present in the Great Hall save His Grace, Davos kept his face steady and expressionless as he turned over the puzzle of what might have been in his mind. Half-hidden as he was in the towering throne’s shadow, he knew he needn’t have bothered. None of the thronging courtiers below, ever-restless in the high summer heat of King’s Landing, gave him so much as a second glance. He might have yawned or laughed, or let his eyes close against the shimmer of colorful silk and jewels, a tempting prospect much of the time. He gave himself no reprieve, but neither did he watch His Grace’s petitioner, nor did he let his gaze roam over the collective audience as he should.

Instead he cast his gaze up to his king, perched atop the grim and foreboding pile of slag that was the Iron Throne. The king wore a gleaming crown, but otherwise cut a severe figure dressed all in black with only scant golden ornament. Stannis, too, kept his face still, but Davos could read the disgust in the set of his jaw, and impatience in the angle of his shoulders. The heat did not seem to touch him, despite his heavy attire, but to his Hand’s practiced eye, he was reaching the end of his endurance for this performance. This would have to be the last petitioner in the day’s court, there was nothing else for it. Without taking his eyes from Stannis, Davos waited for the rhythm of the petitioner’s voice to find its natural pause. The young lord rocked back on his heels to draw breath and add a new flourish to his plea, and only then did Davos move, stepping from the throne’s shadow to the dais before the first step. The eyes of the assembled court were drawn to him, all unwilling.

“Thank you, my lord,” Davos said, pitching his voice to carry to the crowd beyond the startled lordling, but hardly bothering to curb the vestiges of Flea Bottom’s burr and slur that still echoed in his speech. “His Grace will evaluate the merits of your request with all due consideration, and you will have your answer, as will all who have come before the Iron Throne today.” As he spoke, his shortened hand moved in a subtle gesture, and guardsmen in Baratheon livery as well as a single figure resplendent in Kingsguard white descended from the dais a few steps below him. Davos heard the crowd murmuring softly and the echoing shuffle of noise as the crowd parted, but he kept his gaze fixed on his king as Stannis climbed down from the throne’s lofty height. He moved slowly, stiffly, like a man in heavy armor rather than brocaded silk. At the foot of the throne Stannis paused, squaring his shoulders, while Davos stepped to the side in a practiced move, inclining his head, but keeping his gaze elevated to the king’s face.

“As you were.” With a few quiet words, the king acknowledged his Hand’s presence. And as the king paced from the room, Davos followed steadily in his wake.

 

* * *

Revelry followed the day’s events, with a feast and dancing long into the night. While His Grace was not overfond of such frivolity, as he judged it, today marked the Princess Shireen’s nameday, and to fail to honor the day with due celebration could not be borne. And so it was that the whole of the court supped on game from the Kingswood, drank libations from the Red Keep’s deep cellars, and marveled at subtleties shaped like prancing stags that adorned each table – as well as gilded confection in the shape of a gorgeous doe that graced the highest board above. The princess wore a rich gown of rose-colored satin and even the king’s hard expression eased a little, to see his daughter laugh and dance.

His Grace did not smile, but then he never did. Davos nonetheless judged the king pleased, or as close to that emotion as he dared let himself approach. Seated at the highest table, the king was in less intimidating finery than he had worn during the hours of petitioners at court earlier in the day, but still cut an impressive, if nearly impassive figure. Yet Davos could recognize the little signs of relative ease in his king, even from his distant vantage. He had eaten at the high table – he was, after all, Hand of the King – but even before the courses of sweets had begun he had excused himself to oversee the comings and goings of the serving staff, to mind that guards remained alert at their places, and move among the many guests in his quiet way. It was a great asset, in some ways, that so many of the highborn could not bring themselves to truly see him, that their eyes flickered and slid sideways as they fell on him, even now, after so many years of his service as Hand. Sometimes those eyes would briefly catch on the pin of his office, a faint gleam on his breast against his dark doublet, but even that could not make them acknowledge his existence sincerely.

So it was that when the young lordling approached Davos circuitously through the crowd, edging closer almost lazily, stopping to exchange pleasant words and smiles with many along the way, Davos almost – nearly – missed him until the young man stood before him, a goblet of wine in his hand and a smile upon his face. He was young, this little lordling, and slight, brown of hair and eye, and his bare cheeks were fair, though the wine and heat had brought a flush to them, Davos judged. He inclined his head slightly and respectfully, greeted Davos with excessive formality – _my good Lord Hand_ , he began – and offered his compliments for the fine evening, the delicious food, the singers and musicians, and of course, the rich sweet wines from the Arbor and further afield. Davos drew breath to demur, to give credit for the munificence of the celebration to his king, but this time the lordling did not pause in his speech, smooth and cultured and as full of praise as it had been in the day’s court. Now, of course, instead of the king’s generosity, it was the Hand’s wisdom he acknowledged. As he had earlier, the lordling turned his speech to a coaxing plea, his eyes sparkling with good humor or perhaps more of the wine’s effect – if the _good Lord Hand_ could be so great a man as to arrange an evening to make the princess smile so, perhaps he could find a way to arrange the king’s judgement of a humble man’s plea to an equally good end?

“Thank you, my lord,” Davos said, pitching his voice low so that only he and the young lordling could hear the words. “As I said earlier today, your plea has been heard and will be considered with all due respect and gravity. His Grace is advised by a thoughtful and learned Small Council, and my voice is but one among many, but you need not fear. King Stannis is a deeply just man, and you will have your answer soon, I promise you.” As he spoke, his shortened hand clenched at his side, and as ever he wished for his bag of lost fingerbones to clasp, for something about this young lordling made him uneasy. Davos looked to the king at the high table, and saw that the small signs of ease on his face had disappeared, and His Grace watched Davos and his conversation partner with half-lidded eyes and a stony expression. All around the pair of them, the crowd ebbed and flowed like a glittering sea, and for half a moment it felt like there were only three still people in the whole room, if not the whole world. And then the little lordling’s smile turned sharp and deepened as he turned his head to follow Davos’s gaze, and the moment’s stillness was broken by his murmured apologies for any misunderstanding, and meaningless pleasantries as the young man backed away, inclining his head respectfully.

“As you were,” he said, voice soft, before losing himself in the swirling sea of revelers. As the king looked on, Davos could only nod his head and return to his self-imposed duties.

* * *

 

This was not the worst dungeon in which Davos Seaworth had ever found himself a prisoner. It appeared to have been little used, or at least, prior to Davos’s investiture in one of the four small cells, not lately used. It smelled of damp and the nearby sea, not blood or waste or sickness or death. Air moved through a small barred window high up on the stone walls and a few flickering pitch torches in the next room made a small amount of light, enough to see that his cell held a pallet in one corner and a bucket in another. After ascertaining this all in the space of a few moments, Davos found a place to set his feet and stand, with his back to the wall of the cell, the cell’s door on the wall to one side of him, and the single window on the wall to the other side. He fixed his eyes on the play of light through the window, and waited.

He was, of course, afraid, because he was not so great a fool as some, but it could be borne.

Davos waited while the light through the window dimmed, and then he watched the stars, waiting and thinking of many things, but most of all his king. His Grace had trusted only Davos to oversee the settling of an ancient rift between two lordly houses of small fortune but rich in pride. Fair and harsh as he was, His Grace had determined that neither side should have all that they wished, but that each side would have some of their claims supported and enforced by the Iron Throne’s decree. It should have been enough for both sides to accept, the king’s decision, crafted as it was with care and the wisdom of the Master of Laws and the temperance of the High Septon.

As gulls wheeled and cried in the gray of dawn just outside the barred window, Davos finally heard the rattle of a bolt thrown and he turned to the cell’s door as it opened, straightening his shoulders and settling his weight carefully on the balls of his feet. He was not surprised to see a certain young lordling enter, flanked by a pair of hardened, armored soldiers. Nor was he surprised when the two armsmen stepped to Davos’s side and silently bound his wrists fast with rope, and then the rope to a bolt hung high on the wall, pulling his arms above his head with little slack, so that he stood on his toes, shoulders scraping against the uneven stone at his back. The young lording surveyed the work of his men keenly, and then nodded his approval. Without hesitation, one of the men drove his fist sharply into Davos’s side, below his ribs. The blow knocked loose his breath, and he could not draw another before a second blow followed the first. As the soldier methodically rained blows down on his body, Davos barely heard the young lordling speak. As he had suspected, the little lordling was not pleased with the Iron Throne’s decision to deny his family some of their ancient claims. And so he had spent what remained of his House’s fortune on a few skilled men and a swift ship, and taken the _good Lord Hand_ from his chambers in the dark of the night with no one the wiser. The young lordling explained that he was very sorry it had come to this, but he had seen no other option but to force His Grace’s hand by taking and torturing his loyal man, and then framing his House’s ancient enemies for the act. When the young lordling came to the Hand’s “rescue,” they would find him – tragically – too far gone to save, but they could take a bloody and understandable vengeance in his name.

When the beating paused, and Davos found himself able to draw an unsteady, rasping breath, he finally pulled his gaze from the growing brightness outside his high window to fix his eyes on the young lordling, who smiled deeply and did not seem at all sorry, despite his words.

“Thank you, my lord,” Davos said, pausing to spit a mouthful of blood on the stone floor. “For thinking so highly of an old smuggler such as myself. But if you think His Grace will care overmuch for a man such as me, or, more to the point, fall victim to such a child’s play…” He coughed, and tried not to grimace, breathing shallowly through the blooming pain and waving his shortened hand in an impatient gesture, even bound.

“Well, you’ll get what you’re due, I am certain.” The young lordling only smiled and shook his head, a chuckle escaping his lips as he turned to leave the cell.

“As you were,” he said lightly over his shoulder to his hired man. Davos looked once more to the window and fixed his unfocused gaze on the birds winging circles in the dawn as the blows began anew.

* * *

It was Salladhor Saan who found Davos and plucked his battered carcass from the cell, in the end. The canny old pirate had descended upon the little lordling’s supposedly-secret outpost with a sharp crew and made short work of Davos’s captors. Davos hardly spared their cooling corpses a glance as he walked from the cell, his steps unsteady but his pride enough to keep him on his feet. (Or nearly, anyway. In the close confines of the stairway up out of the dark gloom of the dungeon, he allowed Salladhor’s surreptitious support, a firm hand below his arm.)

Davos squinted at the sudden appearance of daylight once they reached the outdoors, even a day as gray and brooding as this one. It had been some time since he had seen any light at all save sputtering torches and the thin sliver the window high on the wall of his cell allowed. Mercifully, Salladhor’s ship was not far, and it felt like no time at all before he was installed in his old friend’s quarters and he felt the familiar roll of the open sea thrumming through his body. Salladhor clucked and huffed over his wounds, and Davos suffered one of Saan’s men to tend the worst of them after sluicing himself off with a brisk bucket of seawater, but before long he waved the man off impatiently. He accepted a change of clothes from his friend, as well - though Salladhor pouted outrageously at Davos’s dismayed reaction at the proffered blue silks - and made his way up above deck. Davos paced the deck slowly, taking a position near the ship’s prow and looking out over the horizon – though it was a gray day, the sky thick with clouds, he kept his eyes fixed on the sea. All the while Salladhor trailed along behind him, muttering and cursing Davos’s stubborn nature, and insisting that he would not have returned to the king’s service for any man less than Davos, and that it might behoove the _good Lord Hand_ to unbend himself and perhaps offer his thanks, though the great fortune offered by His Grace would do well enough in that regard, he supposed. At that, Davos turned his head sharply, swallowing a grunt of pain sparked by the quick movement as he took in Salladhor’s arched brows and crooked smile.

“Thank you, my lord,” Davos said, licking cracked and dry lips, tasting the salt of the sea and, likely enough, traces of his own blood. “I don’t know what could have persuaded His Grace to offer such a sum for saving my sad, scrawny arse, but the king is a man of his word, and I’m glad you’re enough of a pirate still to risk involving yourself with the Iron Throne’s affairs for it.” Salladhor’s silvery brows only arched somehow further, and he laughed, shaking his head as if in disbelief and pressing his half-full wine cup gently into Davos’s good hand, mindful of his broken fingers.

“As you were,” Salladhor said fondly, gesturing expansively toward the sea as he turned on his heel to bellow fond curses at his crew. Davos turned again to the surging waves, and though his throat ached from thirst, the wine cup in his hand was quickly forgotten.

* * *

It was a clear morning when the ship reached King’s Landing after some days of swift travel. Though his face still looked a battered fright, to be sure, and he ached from head to heel, he could move well enough and his ribs protested only a little from within the snug wrapping around his middle when he did. Never had he felt quite so old before, however, and he grudgingly tolerated being bundled into a sedan chair by Salladhor and sent on his way to the Red Keep under the watchful eye of a dozen of the old pirate’s men. Davos kept the chair’s curtains drawn, though he caught glimpses of the city lit by bright summer sun between the curtains in any case. (Certainly, too, the curtains did nothing to keep out the familiar smells of King’s Landing, though they were fainter here than they’d been in Flea Bottom, to be sure.)

Sure he was to be whisked into the official presence of his king upon his return, Davos had dressed this morning with care. He missed his own clothing sorely, but he had managed an ensemble that did not disgust him from Salladhor’s store of such things, resolutely choosing not to consider the provenance of the silks, and instead focusing on finding the few items in black and gray to be had. Some of it was oversized – once smallfolk, always a small man, now smaller still after his captivity – but it would do. His own familiar boots had somehow survived everything, and then had cleaned up remarkably well, considering circumstances.

It had been a grim task, removing the evidence of his torture from the sturdy leather, but a welcome one as he waited out the days of sailing with impatience.

When the chair’s porters finally stopped, and the curtains were whisked aside, Davos found himself in a familiar but unexpected location – the lowest entrance to the Tower of the Hand. Servants with familiar faces make quick but proper bows, and several of them gently but firmly bundled him up the spiraling stairs to his rooms, even as he glimpsed another who pressed heavy, clinking bags into the ready hands of Salladhor’s men before they were lost to view. He protested this all - somewhat faintly, he would later have to admit to himself – and tried to ask after the location of the king as well as key members of the Small Council.

To be sure, now that he had returned, there were many decisions to be made, potential ramifications of his capture as well as the deaths of his captors, not to mention consulting with his eyes-and-ears network, put at some risk by his unexpectedly long absence from King’s Landing. But his servants had no forthcoming reply but vaguely agreeable and soothing noises for the space of a flight of stairs, and only on the third – as they half-carried him – did one say something about a need for discretion in these matters. Davos only nodded, too winded to make any further reply, and instead focused on putting one foot in front of the other, which took a considerable portion of his flagging energy. Finally, just as the trembling ache in his limbs veered precariously close to a stagger, he found himself with his nose inches from a familiar door, and he barely processed the pair of white-clad figures flanking the entrance to his own chamber before he was deposited within.

A gentle breeze stirred the window hangings of his comfortable and simple antechamber, an extraordinary array of food and drink rested on the table, and by the fireplace, cold and clean of ashes in the summer heat, the king stood, tall and straight as a lance, studying Davos with his penetrating blue gaze. For the space of a quick and shallow breath, Davos could only gape, but then he remembered himself, and bowed, and fumbled for words.

He had no chance to speak any of the stray syllables he managed to collect in that moment, for Stannis stepped away from the cold hearth and crossed the room in a scant few swift strides, grinding his teeth and cursing that only his own loyal man could grieve him so thoroughly by actually returning home alive. The king’s hands clasped Davos by the arms firmly, and though it awoke a fresh wave of pain in his abused body, Davos only clasped his king’s arms in return as he wavered under the onslaught of a clipped and agitated lecture from His Grace. Davos rocked back on his heels as he was told by the king – as ever, in no uncertain terms - that his _good Lord Hand_ was not to be permitted to sink into any useless courtesies, nor was he like to be permitted to ignore his hurts and his hunger as the king was sure he had, and he most assuredly was not to be permitted to be so foolish as to die today or at any foreseeable point in the future.

Davos gripped his king’s sleeve, unable to look away from the sharp certainty in his king’s face, and decided not to argue the last point, however unlikely it was that he would be able to heed it.

“Thank you, my lord,” Davos stammered, falling - without thinking - back on the no-longer-proper form of address, the one he had spoken in all the years before his king became the king that the rest of them acknowledged and bowed before. “I don’t know how I have become deserving your concern and your care, but I’m glad it’s so, and to have come back to your service in one piece.” Ignoring the ache throbbing in his body – or, rather, trading one for another, in some ways - he leaned forward into the other man’s chest, and stretched up to press his mouth to his king’s. Stannis met him swiftly, and kissed him hard and well, his grip still holding Davos up when his legs threatened to fail him. They broke apart only as Davos’s strength finally ebbed and he sank back flat-footed, gasping and breathless between the kiss and the wretched state of his ribcage. With a grunt of annoyance for his Hand’s stubborn nature, Stannis moved to settle Davos in a chair by the lavishly-set table. Sore, wounded, and faint, Davos resisted nonetheless, even when his king clasped the back of his head and fixed him with a baleful glare. Davos decided that in this one thing, he might have what _he_ wished.

“As you were,” he said evenly, tightening his hands in his king’s tunic, and pulling him forward and down to his mouth once more.

Ever accommodating, his Grace permitted it.


End file.
